


Broken Mycroft 1

by Marmosette



Series: Broken Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft-centric, POV Greg, Protective Greg, mystrade, the game is now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:25:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15574740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: Mycroft was a dejected mess with a haunting air of finality, like a man who had given up trying to escape and was waiting for the hangman.





	Broken Mycroft 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if there will be multiple chapters here, but there might. I'm just testing responses to the gifset of Mycroft from The Game Is Now. ETA: I'm testing out MY responses, that is. I have feelz, but I can't pin down what they are. I'm gonna keep trying out things until I figure out what it is.

Greg nearly walked past him. It was a dim corner, and they were moving at speed, and it was just a dark smudge in the corner of his eye, but enough to make him turn his head.

He didn’t recognise him immediately. Who would? Mycroft Holmes did not sit on the floor. If Mycroft Holmes were on the floor, he would be crumpled in an unconscious lump, or crouched and ready to stop being on the floor at the first available opportunity, or at the very least he would be a in a smaller, less-obvious position. He would not have his six-feet-of-legs body stretched out with his legs casually but somehow elegantly crossed, his gaze wandering to the side as if this didn’t matter. He would not let anyone find him with his collar unbuttoned and his tie loosened, his hair mussed—tousled, even—with dust on his coat and stubble on his face.

The detail that, for some reason Greg couldn’t put his finger on, alarmed him the most was that the collar on his coat was turned up. He wasn’t clutching the coat around him for warmth. Cold people huddled. They didn’t slump. They shivered—they didn’t sprawl, no matter how elegantly. Mycroft was a dejected mess with a haunting air of finality, like a man who had given up trying to escape and was waiting for the hangman.

“Mycroft?” Greg felt like an idiot, but it came out as a question. Who else would it be? He took a crabbed step closer, ducking to try to see his face more clearly.

The seated figure rolled the back of his head against the wall as he turned to look up at Greg dully. More proof it wasn’t him—Mycroft would at least have startled and lifted his head away from the wall to avoid getting dust in his hair as well as tousling it further. And Mycroft had never looked so lifeless. His eyes barely moved—Greg wasn’t sure he was even blinking.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Oh my God, what’s happened to you?” Greg knelt hurriedly beside him, his hands hovering without touching. Closer to, it was even more disturbing. The tails of his coat were crumpled beside him; he’d made no effort to protect them from damage, nor to tuck them under himself to give him a bit more insulation from the cold cement floor.

“Have you found him?” Mycroft asked with a single listless blink, ignoring Lestrade’s question.

“Who, Sherlock? Yeah, about an hour ago. He was the one who sent us here for you.”

Mycroft lifted his head slightly in acknowledgement, but then looked away again, falling back into the same position he’d been in when Greg had spotted him. “Good.”

“ _Good_?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” Mycroft glanced up at him again, then finally roused himself. “Help me up.”

Greg reached out a hand, but Mycroft ignored it. He uncrossed his legs and got his feet against the floor, but he was still holding his right wrist in his left. He pulled one foot in closer and looked up at Greg again briefly, and Greg finally got it. He hurried to Mycroft’s side and bent, getting one hand under Mycroft’s armpit and the other on his elbow. “What happened?”

“Ohh…” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head dismissively as he got onto his feet. “Fighting. It’s injured.” He lifted his right hand, but pulled away when Greg reached for it.

“How bad?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said firmly, but staring at the floor as though it had spoken instead of Greg. “Seriously, and it hurts,” he added, barely meeting Greg’s eyes before turning away. “I want to leave.”

“Sure, yeah, ’course,” Greg said quietly. Belatedly, he realised they were being watched by his team. “Stand aside,” he said, trying to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “C’mon, move!” Mycroft stalked past, ignoring them all.

Anderson tried to follow them out. “Chief, maybe we should—”

“No, _you_ should get back there and do your job,” Greg said, too quickly and too harshly. He took a breath and tried again. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

“Immobilise it after you get his coat off, all right,” Anderson said slowly, raising his hands in surrender.

“Yeah. Thanks.” When Greg turned back to the stairs, Mycroft was already gone.

Greg caught up to him outside, finding him leaning against the car, his back to Greg, his arms on the roof, his head bowed. “Hospital, John, or home?” Greg asked, shoving his fists into the pockets of his coat.

Mycroft’s head twitched in an aborted turn. “My office.” He reached for the door handle, then sighed as he realised it was the driver’s door and walked around to the passenger side.

“Why your office?” Greg asked, moving closer but without unlocking the door.

Mycroft glanced at him across the roof, but wouldn’t hold his gaze. “I have work to do.”

“Can you write?” Greg asked, gesturing vaguely at his injured wrist.

“I’m not talking about paperwork,” Mycroft said, some life returning to his voice. “May we please get moving?”

Greg tipped his head, relenting enough to unlock the doors and get in. Mycroft folded one leg in and paused, reaching awkwardly below the seat for the lever and slid the seat back before he got his second leg in. Then he shut the door and buckled himself in, only then realising Greg was staring at him, the keys in his hand on his lap. “Well?” he demanded, finally holding Greg’s gaze for more than a moment.

“Look, you can’t even intimidate _me_ right now,” Greg told him, turning further to face him. “I don’t think you’ll get anything done. And no one’s going to want you there.”

“What they _want_ does not matter,” Mycroft said, still trying to stare him down.

“I dunno what’s happened to you, but you’re not up to it,” Greg said, the words coming far too easily. He didn’t feel the slightest urge to back down, and that should have been terrifying, if Mycroft Holmes were himself. He felt as if his own authority were being sapped just by being near him—the strange feeling of being back to a DI, just because Mycroft didn’t need anyone with any power in order to be bested. The ease with which Greg kept the upper hand was troubling.

Mycroft’s face had no fire. He was tired, and angry, and frustrated, but he was mortal. It was the disturbing sight of a wounded god, Greg thought, and kept it to himself. Mycroft would not react well to being called a god during the one time he was failing to seem like one. He seemed younger than Greg could remember, which also wouldn’t be a welcome observation. There was something naked about his face, the faint fuzz of stubble sapping the colour from his lips. Sherlock was more terrifying than this. Greg couldn’t imagine how young Mycroft would have to be to fail to intimidate. Even a teenaged Mycroft would have more natural presence than this.

“Seriously,” Greg said, meeting smokey-blue eyes with no hesitation, hoping Mycroft would see the difference in himself just by Greg’s reaction to him. “You’re not going to do yourself any favours by going in like this.”

Mycroft looked down and for an instant, Greg thought he’d relented. But instead, he raised his hands slightly, looking himself over theatrically. “I’m sorry, does my grooming offend you? I haven’t been around any reflective surfaces for a few days—”

“Hey,” Greg cut him off with a gentle word, and the fact that it worked clinched things. He started the car, but didn’t put it in gear. “Honestly, the distressed look is kind of doing it for me, but I’m not such a mess that I can’t prioritise,” Greg said, risking a faint smile. “How about home, and I have John meet us there? That way we won’t have to deal with your brother.”

Mycroft subsided in his seat, lowering his injured hand and carefully bracing it with his left again. “Fine.”

Greg glanced at him a few times as he pulled his phone out, wondering if he could be clear enough in a text or if John would need to hear him to realise the severity. Talking might be faster, he decided, and Mycroft turned away, staring out the window as Greg brought the phone to his ear. “John. Meet me at the house, bring your med kit. No, he’s safe, mostly unharmed, just his wrist. No, do _not_ bring him, do not let him follow you. Well tell him no. Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” He hung up and Mycroft’s head was tilted back, his eyes shut. “John said he’ll be there, and he’ll handle your brother.”

Mycroft’s lids lifted just enough for him to roll his eyes, and then they slid shut again. Greg snorted a laugh. “He’ll have to get through both of us, and I’m not up for it,” Greg said, and pulled out into traffic.

Mycroft was silent during the drive, and Greg left him alone. When they got to the house, John was waiting for them outside, next to a red sports car. Mycroft released his seatbelt and got out of the car slowly, but smoothly. Greg decided not to help, catching John’s eye instead and going to unlock the door.

“What happened?” John asked gently as he followed Mycroft in.

“I fell,” Mycroft sighed, and walked straight into Greg’s back.

“Hello, brother mine.”

Sherlock was sitting calmly in front of the empty fireplace, staring into it as if seeing a fire there that no one else could. He glanced up as Greg froze, giving him a very faint smile that was completely unlike him.

Greg didn’t move, keeping John and Mycroft both trapped behind him in the doorway. “I told John you weren’t to come,” Greg said, his voice flat.

Sherlock stood up. “I know. But I’m weaker than Mycroft, remember? Sentiment.”

Greg stared at him, wondering what Sherlock was up to, but Sherlock was calm, not a trace of his usual manic power-play games in sight. Greg found that he believed him, and that probably meant the world was about to end—Mycroft being weak and Sherlock being kind? Pandemonium must be nigh.

“Here, brother.” Sherlock took a step aside, waving his hand to the chair he’d vacated. “Please. John?”

Greg moved aside, taking off his coat and hooking it on the stand, giving John and Mycroft a chance to take the lead. While John helped Mycroft out of his topcoat and suit jacket, Greg went to stand in front of Sherlock. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Small, slanted eyes looked down at him, and Greg wondered for a moment if this were a mistake. Sherlock could still read him better than he could read Sherlock, and especially if he were being kind to his brother. That was unprecedented. Almost.

“Not now. I’ll let you know.”

Greg glanced back at Mycroft, and the sight of white shirt sleeves arrested him for a moment. John was kneeling on the floor, opening his med bag as Mycroft lowered himself onto the chair, working at his cufflink.

“Here, love, let me.” Greg bent down and slipped the gold knot free, dropped it in his pocket, and carefully pulled the sleeve up. Mycroft watched him silently, his face set in a tense frown.

“Doesn’t look too swollen,” John said, nudging Greg aside. “Don’t hold back, now,” he told Mycroft. “When this hurts, I need to know or we can’t tell what’s wrong.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked up at him and he nodded once, his expression unchanged. He hissed at John’s first touch.

“Right, we have a winner,” John said quietly, glancing into Mycroft’s eyes as he shifted his fingers. “This all right? And this? All good?”

Mycroft simply nodded, his expression unchanging after that first hiss of pain. John poked a bit more, ran a thermometer across Mycroft’s forehead, checked his eyes, then dug back into his bag. “Nothing broken. It’s a sprain. You can get it X-rayed if you like, but it isn’t too bad.” He wrapped a brace around Mycroft’s wrist and gave him two instant-cold gel packs. “Ice it tonight. Frozen peas work best. Painkillers, elevate it—all the usual. Anything else hurt?”

“No.” It was the only thing Mycroft had said since they’d seen Sherlock.

“Rrrright. Okay then.” He smiled up at Greg. “Let’s check your freezer—see if you’ve got those peas.”

Greg opened his mouth, but caught something in John’s expression that changed his mind. “Sure. Give us a sec…” He realised he was about to leave the two brothers alone, and hesitated. “Ah, um. You two gonna be okay?”

Mycroft lifted his gaze to Sherlock, running his eyes down the length of him before nodding silently and looking away again. Greg looked to Sherlock, and he just tightened his lips in a functional smile and nodded, his hands tucked behind him as he moved around to the other chair.

Greg made his escape, following John down the short hallway. When they reached the kitchen, John stopped and turned to him, ignoring the freezer. “Listen,” he said, waving Greg to stillness. “Are you sure what happened to him?”

Greg shrugged and shook his head. “Not been very talkative. He didn’t want to come home, though—he wanted to go straight to his office.”

“Yeah…” John bit his lip, glancing back down the hall for a moment in thought. “Because there might be something else there. He’s just not…how’d you find him?”

“He was just sitting there. On the floor. Pretty much just like this.”

“I don’t mean what he was wearing, or—”

“Are we talking about the same thing?” Greg asked suddenly, taking a step closer and staring John down, something fiery burning through his veins, threatening to white out his vision.

“Whoa, calm down,” John said, patting the air with his hands and checking the hallway as he backed away. “Obviously I’m not saying _you_ did anything to him.”

Greg grabbed hold of the edge of the countertop beside him, making himself look down, away from John. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Okay.”

“Right. Okay. So…?”

It struck Greg suddenly how out of place John seemed. He was _always_ out of place, with this bunch. His voice sounded so normal. Sherlock’s voice was a hypnotic growl, deep and smooth, and his brother’s ranged from bland to poisoned velvet, in his crueler moments. John, though, was the only tenor, sounding small and safe and _normal_. Maybe that was what made him and Sherlock such a terrifying pair—Sherlock was overtly alien, from his face to his voice to his brain, lightning fast or taunting and slow, and while you were off-balance dealing with him, small and normal John Watson came up and asked something quiet and direct and you answered out of reflex, grateful to have a human to deal with. Then you suddenly realised he was asking you if your scary boyfriend had been raped.

“You haven’t forgotten which of us is which, have you?” Greg asked, his voice slipping into his interrogation register.

“What? No! Wait, _what_? Why…why would I think you’re… _him_?” he asked, glancing back toward the sitting room.

“No, pillock—I’m the police, _you’re_ the doctor,” Greg said, his pulse pounding again, trying not to bare his teeth.

“What?” John was squinting at him in confusion now.

“Isn’t that something his doctor should be asking him?” Now Greg really was getting angry.

“Greg, if you’ve forgotten, _that_ , out there, is Mycroft Holmes. He kidnaps me for fun. Sherlock calls him the most dangerous man we’ll ever meet—”

“He is,” Greg snarled.

“And you want me to ask him personal, embarrassing questions in front of his husband and brother?” John finished, shifting his stance slightly.

Greg paused, trying to follow that. “What?”

John breathed out hard through his nose, looking down, then back up at Greg. “If anything like that happened to him…I can’t be his therapist for that,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “I’m happy to be the first aid medic, sure. No problem. But if that…mind out there has been injured like that, I am not comfortable going blundering in on something that delicate. If you don’t know, then maybe it’s best if he’s seen at hospital.”

Greg turned away, rubbing his hands against the small of his back and trying not to lose focus. “Yeah. Okay, I get it.” He turned back to John, realising how he’d sounded a minute before. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” And because this was John Watson, Greg knew he meant it. It didn’t change the look on John’s face, though.

“Ahh…yeah, okay. So.” Greg tried to remember how to think. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I want to say no, but…maybe?” He shook his head.

“I think it’s better if you ask him—you know what to watch for?”

“What, like angry outbursts, poor concentration, paranoia, withdrawn…?” Greg raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Other than the concentration, yeah, I see your point—pretty much every-day life with a Holmes.” He smiled briefly.

“Okay,” Greg sighed, then reached past John to the freezer. “Let me grab something to ice his wrist.”

When they returned to the two brothers, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his seat, staring intently at Mycroft, who was ignoring him and staring into the fireplace. Sherlock looked up at them. “Ah. No, he hasn’t been.”

Greg gaped at him. His brain followed a well-worn path: what did Sherlock mean, did he really mean that, how could he have known that’s what Greg was wondering, how could he know the answer; and finally surrender: of course he did. Greg looked at Mycroft, who for once seemed to have walked the same path, and was newer to it so his face was showing all the shock Greg used to feel. He stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, then turned his startled gaze to Greg. “You thought _that_?”

Greg wasn’t given time to explain. Mycroft had already accepted the truth and was waving his injured hand in irritated dismissal of the idea. “No. Hardly.”

When no counter-explanation followed, Greg’s train of thought spontaneously jumped the tracks. Another explanation presented itself and it was far more likely to be true, for a Holmes. Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, so he checked Sherlock. Uncertainty flashed in Sherlock’s eyes and he bit his lips, frowning as he took a quick step closer to Greg. Before he could warn Sherlock off, though, the younger Holmes brother was looking around for John. “We’re in the way. Lestrade. Mycroft.”

Greg stepped aside as the Baker Street pair made their way out. Mycroft had raised his eyes silently to Sherlock once in farewell, but didn’t look over as Greg sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry,” Greg said. It was the weakest opening he could imagine, but had the advantage of being true.

Mycroft didn’t protest. Greg had expected him to be irritated and dismissive again, but the thought didn’t seem to have crossed his mind. He simply looked up at Greg briefly, read everything in his face, and looked down again. Finally, he spoke.

“Yes. It wasn’t physical.”

“What’d they do?”

“They…won.”

Greg frowned, not understanding. “Wait—how?”

“Does it matter?” Mycroft asked, his voice dull. “I had one task—don’t tell them. I failed.”

“But we caught them,” Greg said. “They’re off in some bunker somewhere with your lot tearing into them as we speak.”

“No thanks to me.”

“Ahh, love,” Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead, running his hand down his face, feeling his own stubble around his lips. “It wasn’t up to you.”

“No. And I wasn’t up to it.” He glanced at Greg, showing the first hint of being himself since Greg had found him. “You don’t understand. I’ve never—I’ve been trained in interrogation. Asking the questions, and resisting them. As it turns out, I am…rather terrible at the real thing.”

Knowing what he meant but helpless to resist arguing, Greg said, “I’ve seen you interrogate people.”

Mycroft only looked up at him with forced patience, his lips thin.

“Hey. Hey, now…” Greg reached to set his hand on Mycroft’s knee.

Mycroft looked at it as though it were a completely foreign gesture and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Greg refused to pull his hand back. He refused to back down. A mental failure on any level always hit Mycroft hard, and he was brutal on himself in response. Having been forced into failure by someone else would be the worst. It was an attack on the thing Mycroft prided himself on above all else. People thought that he was a smug bastard and resented his mental superiority, and he’d gone into a field full of the cleverest people there were. They weren’t used to coming in second, let alone so far behind first place. What they didn’t realise was that there were few things Mycroft prided himself on—all the pride he had was vested in his intellect. The care he took of his appearance was minor—that was protective camouflage, because Mycroft had never liked his appearance. He did his best to counter the things that made him feel most insecure, but it wasn’t like he thought it was his strength.

 _Everything else is transport_.

His body wasn’t what Mycroft valued. The wrist wasn’t an issue. But Mycroft had been injured where it hurt him the most, and that was going to cause him as much damage as the physical violation he and John had feared.

“What do you want me to do?” Greg asked carefully.

For a moment, Mycroft was back on that cement floor, broken down past humanity’s level. But he closed his eyes for a moment, then shifted forward on the chair and pushed himself onto his feet. “I’d like a bath and a shave,” he said, moving past Greg toward the stairs.

Greg followed.


End file.
